


Trigger Happy

by Gingerhermit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Barebacking, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Dominance, Dominant John, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Everything is Consentual, Gunplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Weapons Kink, seriously so much porn so little plot, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/pseuds/Gingerhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Click.</p>
<p>The metallic sound of a pistol hammer being cocked seemed to echo through the otherwise silent flat, which was currently draped in shadows. Sherlock had known from the moment he entered the flat that John was there, waiting for him somewhere in the darkness. The delicious sound that still resonated in his ears announced the other man’s intentions rather plainly, and the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck and arms rose in anticipation.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>This fic was inspired by viewing this anonymous prompt on ewmartin’s tumblr: http://auburnrecluse.tumblr.com/post/74630868881/sherlock-has-a-secret-violence-kink-he-loves-it-when</p>
<p>“Sherlock has a secret violence kink, he loves it when John brings a weapon or two into bed with them. John pretends he only does it because Sherlock ask him, but he loves the dominance it gives him. The little whimpers Sherlock makes as he forces him to undress at gunpoint, and the look in his pretty blue eyes as john... pounds him into the mattress are what really get John going.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger Happy

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: This fic now has a wonderful illustration thanks to the very talented Hislastbough: [View it here.](http://hislastbough.tumblr.com/image/82742055690)
> 
> I’ve purposefully set this in an ambiguous timeframe, so do with that what you will.
> 
> I feel I should also qualify that I don’t actually have a lot of personal experience with or intimate knowledge of guns, so if you do and feel I’ve gotten something very wrong, please feel free to (nicely) point it out. 
> 
> Fair warning, there be some seriously kinky waters ahead. All of it is consensual, but inherently very dangerous. 
> 
> Thanks: To my lovely betas, Julia (Etnahsmother) and Shirley (prettyrealisticjohnlockfanart). Thank you, Shirley, for putting up with my obsessive re-drafting and being a conductor of light! 
> 
> THE NECESSARY DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction, intended solely for entertainment value. I in no way advocate the use of firearms in an irresponsible manner. Treat every gun as if it is loaded, etc. Obviously gunplay is very dangerous. Unless your name is Sherlock Holmes, do not try this at home!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Guns/gunplay, rough sex, strangling (only a little, cough), intentional bruising

_Click._

The metallic sound of a pistol hammer being cocked seemed to echo through the otherwise silent flat, which was currently draped in shadows. Sherlock paused in reaching for the nearest lamp in the sitting room, letting the sound wash over him and immediately send his pulse thrumming a pleasant staccato beat in his ears. It was late, and he’d spent the last seventy minutes at the Yard giving his statements and tying up the last remaining loose ends on their most recently closed case. The red tape when he delivered a murderer in a body bag was always ridiculous.

Sherlock had known from the moment he entered the flat that John was there, waiting for him somewhere in the darkness. The delicious sound that still resonated in his ears announced the other man’s intentions rather plainly, and the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck and arms rose in anticipation. He froze in place, not moving a muscle until John spoke.

“Switch on the lamp, then turn around.” John’s voice was pitched low and quiet, as steely as the loaded gun trained on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock obeyed, flicking on the lamp beside him before turning slowly with both hands open at his sides in a gesture of surrender.

John sat across the room in his armchair, tucked away in the shadows enough that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face. Not that he really needed to. Although John was sitting up straight with his posture slightly rigid, the rest of his body language was relaxed and confident. His hand was steady as it held the Sig pointed squarely at Sherlock’s chest, which was unsurprising. John always handled his weapon like an extension of himself, as naturally as breathing or speaking.

“John.” The name slipped past Sherlock’s lips like a reverent incantation.

“Take off your coat.” John didn’t appear to move a muscle as he spoke, and the unwavering focus of the gun and the command in his voice alone were enough to push Sherlock to action. There was the slightest tremor in Sherlock’s hands as he complied, shrugging the Belstaff over his shoulders and tossing it back onto the couch behind him.

“Now the jacket and your shirt.”

After his suit jacket joined the coat on the sofa, Sherlock’s fingers caressed each button on his shirt as he slowly flicked them open one by one. He _felt_ rather than saw John’s gaze on him, following each motion of his long fingers. He savored the process until his shirt fell open, and he slowly let it slide over his shoulders and down his arms.

“No, don’t fold it,” John chided suddenly, his voice holding a sharp reprimand. Sherlock froze in the act of doing just that. “Drop it on the floor.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow slightly, but bit back the annoyed retort on his lips when John gestured with the pistol. The shirt fell to the ground.

“Good.” Once again Sherlock could feel those eyes roaming over his body for a long moment before John ordered with another very slight but steady gesture of the gun, “trousers. Then the rest.”

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. His pants and socks were next until he stood naked with his garments haphazardly strewn behind him on the floor. After another long moment of silence, Sherlock slowly spread his hands out in a gesture of surrender once more. He could hear John swallow, once.

“Bedroom. Now.”

Sherlock kept his hands raised as he walked to his bedroom, making his strides slow and purposeful while he could hear John walking closely behind him. He didn’t look back as he entered the room, although he stopped until John stepped in close and he felt the unmistakable press of the cold barrel against his lower back. A hot flush rippled through Sherlock at this gesture, because John so rarely allowed direct contact between himself and the gun when it was loaded. When this did happen, it was always purposeful and controlled, and incredibly arousing.

“On the bed,” John said roughly, his breath tickling the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Get on your back.”

Once on the bed, Sherlock positioned himself to full advantage—stretching his long legs out and resting his hands on either side of his head. John was visible now as he flipped on the light and walked to the end of the bed. For once he wasn’t wearing one of his horrible jumpers, but a simple grey shirt with the sleeves rolled under and pushed up on his forearms. The pistol glinted in the light, glittering and cold and utterly merciless. Once it caught his gaze, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off it and he swallowed hard, his heart thrumming loudly in his ears.

“Look at you,” John breathed, his voice scraping lower still. “You’re already getting off on this, aren’t you.”

Sherlock didn’t dignify this with an answer, because it was obvious that he was already nearly fully erect. He merely looked pointedly down at the evidence, which caused John to briefly smirk before his face settled back into an impassive expression.

“Touch yourself for me, Sherlock.” Despite his best efforts at concealing it, everything about the expression on John’s face was impossibly hungry.

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, watching those blue eyes darken further as he let one hand slowly drift over his chest. He rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger before pinching it firmly to feel it pebble, and repeated the same treatment on the other. When he breathed in sharply, he heard John do the same.

As his hand slipped lower, Sherlock stroked his fingers down the line of his sternum and then lightly over his stomach. He resisted the urge to shut his eyes when his hand closed over his cock, wrapping his fingers around it to stroke up and down lazily. Instead he kept his eyes locked on the gun, on the way it stayed perfectly level despite John’s increased respirations. Sherlock let a series of soft noises escape his lips as he stroked himself to full arousal, taking his time and making a show of it the way he knew John found particularly arousing.

It worked.

John’s eyes were blown black with desire as he strode over to the side of the bed nearest Sherlock, and his trousers were tented with the unmistakable evidence of Sherlock’s effective performance. His gaze barely left Sherlock for a moment while he methodically unloaded the gun and set the magazine aside on the bedside table. Even though he’d anticipated it, Sherlock felt a pang of disappointment nevertheless. This was one of John’s unbending rules: no loaded firearms in bed.

After sitting down on the edge of the bed, John caught the bereft look on Sherlock’s face and his mouth quirked slightly into a smirk. He shook his head, once, at the silent plea Sherlock always lodged at this juncture, and answered it by shoving the now disarmed pistol in Sherlock’s face.

As it turned out, even a gun with an empty clip was still impressive from this vantage, and Sherlock’s cock leaked appreciatively into his hand.

“Open your mouth,” John said quietly, and Sherlock did. He was rewarded by metallic taste of steel, and he shut his eyes as he savored the feeling of the Sig being unceremoniously pushed to the back of his throat. He suppressed a gag, his eyes watering, and he felt John’s lips ghost across his ear. “You’re so bloody gorgeous like this,” John murmured, his free hand splaying lightly across Sherlock’s throat. “I could do anything to you right now. And you’d love it.”

Sherlock moaned appreciatively around the barrel of the gun, his tongue caressing it impulsively. John’s fingers wrapped around his throat and tightened. Sherlock felt his entire body go boneless, giving over to the moment and surrendering to it, to all of it—to anything and everything John Watson saw fit to give him.

John’s breathing stuttered in his ear as he withdrew his hand.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

After a seemingly long moment John pulled the gun back slowly as well, dragging it across Sherlock’s slightly swollen lips. Sherlock opened his eyes. The barrel glistened with his own saliva as it hovered in front of his face.

“Turn over,” John breathed hotly against his neck, and Sherlock heard him unzipping his trousers with one hand while Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach. John momentarily set the gun down on the pillow next to Sherlock’s head, still in his line of sight, while he smeared lubricant over his eager erection.

Sherlock’s already racing pulse accelerated significantly in anticipation, and he reached up to brace his hands on the headboard. He sucked in a breath as John grabbed his hips roughly and guided them back to settle his cock outside Sherlock’s hole for a brief moment before pushing in. Sherlock savored the fleeting ache as John buried himself to the hilt in one solid thrust.

“John,” he breathed out on low moan, his back arching with a thrill of pleasure at being taken this way. It was such a sharp contrast to the earlier days of their mutual discovery, when John would take meticulous care to ensure his every movement felt good to both of them. It wasn’t that Sherlock disliked John as the considerate lover, but it was so much more thrilling to see him let go like this, taking what he wanted without remorse.

John groaned in response, leaning forward to drape himself over Sherlock’s back and press a warm, soft kiss to the back of his neck as he buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock hid a smirk in the pillow, because they’d yet to ever finish a single scenario without John forgetting himself at least once. He’d given up being annoyed by it and had even come to expect it. In truth, Sherlock might actually be a little disappointed if it stopped happening altogether.

John caught himself quickly this time, drawing back with a rueful huff before his hand fisted hard in Sherlock’s hair and jerked his head back.

That was more like it.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asked, his voice strained as he kept his hips still. “Tell me.”

“You,” Sherlock breathed unevenly, and John shook his head.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sighing inwardly, Sherlock embellished with his voice pitched low and silky in that way he knew drove John mad, “I want you to fuck me, John. I want you to split me open and use me until I can’t even remember my own name, and then I want you to fuck me harder, until you come inside me and can’t remember yours.”

John’s breathing faltered at this. He seemed to gather all of the self-control he could muster to just rock his hips forward once, maddeningly slow, and pull back. “And?”

“Please.”

“Good.” John released Sherlock’s hair in favor of grabbing Sherlock’s hips with both hands again, and he drove forward hard, knocking the breath out of both of them. Sherlock’s own prick throbbed, trapped between his body and the sheets, and even this relatively small amount of friction added to his pleasure.

John quickly set a hard, brutal pace, nearly slamming Sherlock’s head into the headboard with each thrust. Sherlock’s entire world narrowed down to one of pure sensation, to the drag of John’s cock as it pulled out and rammed back in again and again. But it wasn’t until John reached up with one hand to grab the gun, shoving it into the soft skin under Sherlock’s jaw and wrenching his head back, that Sherlock’s body began quivering in earnest.

“Oh god, please,” Sherlock whimpered through clenched teeth, lost in a haze of need and pleasure as he felt himself begin to float away. John shifted his angle to graze Sherlock’s prostate with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine. “Please, John. John—“

“I remember when you told That Woman you don’t ever beg.” John’s voice was both rough and breathless when he spoke, taking on the quality of a low growl as he continued his pounding. With each movement, the gun jabbed into Sherlock’s skin hard enough to bruise. “But that was a lie, wasn’t it? You beg for me. You’re so fucking gorgeous when you beg for me.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed out, his body shuddering as he felt himself falling closer and closer to the edge. His voice was ragged and raw as he moaned, “Just for you. Only for you.”

“You’re mine.”

“Yess,” Sherlock keened, thrusting his hips shamelessly into the mattress. It was the sound that did it, of John cocking the hammer on the gun again, and Sherlock buried his face in the pillows with ragged gasps as he came with blinding intensity. He was only vaguely aware of John quickly speeding up his pace, muttering beautiful obscenities around low grunts that devolved into a hoarse shout as he too fell over the edge of pleasure and into oblivion.

Sherlock savored the warm weight of John collapsed across his back. John’s face buried in his hair as they both shuddered and breathed together for several long moments.

“God,” John finally murmured into Sherlock’s dark curls, breathing out a warm laugh against the back of his neck as he tucked the gun away underneath a pillow.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed in reply, having fairly lost his ability to articulate coherent words. His mind was beautifully blank, a rarity that he luxuriated in for as long as possible. John dropped a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled out.

“That was incredible,” John murmured appreciatively as he slid off Sherlock’s back to lie down beside him. Sherlock shifted onto his side and draped an arm over John, pulling the smaller man in against him. They were a mess, but it didn’t matter. “You’re bloody amazing, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock drawled with an easy smirk, pleased with the gentle laugh it coaxed out of John. John’s eyes were soon drawn to the large bruise left by the Sig, already darkening on the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck. He reached up to touch it lightly, before then tracing his fingers down over the angry red marks those same hands had recently left on Sherlock’s throat.

“Thank god for your ruddy scarves,” John remarked with a rueful smile, although he didn’t sound remotely apologetic in the least. His hand cupped Sherlock’s jaw while he leaned in to brush their lips together, his mouth soft and pliant as they kissed with the hazy joy of a particularly brilliant afterglow.

“I know I say this every time,” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth before drawing back a little to look up at him with a warm smile, “but if I’d known all it took was a loaded gun to make you so bloody compliant I’d have whipped it out ages ago. Have you washing up the dishes and cleaning the eyeballs out of the ice tray and whatnot.”

“Boring.” Sherlock shut his eyes to the sight of John’s smile, letting it linger behind his eyelids as he felt John settle in comfortably against him. An easy silence blanketed them for several long moments. When Sherlock sensed John was on the verge of drifting off to sleep, he said quietly, “John?”

“Hm?”

“You’re rather amazing as well.”


End file.
